Cello Sonata, Op 6
by ImagineBagginsDragon
Summary: Hannigram. In an alternate universe, Will's mental health deteriorates faster, and Hannibal swoops in to take him under his wing and manipulate him faster. Events are missing or jumbled.
1. The Field

_Authors Note: This being my first story, constructive criticism is very welcomed and even encouraged. Also, oh my god, if you go on Hannibal wiki on Will Graham's page, it labels Hannibal as a_ _love interest. __Likewise for Hannibal's page. By the way, in the huge Psychological handbook, Folie à deux does translate to 'folly of two', and not 'madness of two.' That was a rough translation that shortened a long story. Btw I made it not an omegaverse... where I'm going with this story, it fits better if it isn't. Pun intended with taste in men._

Disclaimer: I don't own these unfortunate, borrowed puppets. Not now, not ever.

The air was polluted, absolutely tainted with cheap aftershave, dried blood, rotting corpses, and an open box of cheap Chinese food, from which a coroner consumed kung pao chicken. "Jimmy!" a voice said sharply, and the coroner excused himself to set down his food in his vehicle.

Hannibal was both amused and curious; who had bad taste in scents, and why in the name of Jack Crawford would someone eat in front of decimated bodies? However, as a connoisseur of human meat, Hannibal didn't have much to say. However, one should have enough respect

The psychologist turned to the Bureau's director of behavioral sciences. "I'm very interested to see the special agent you spoke of, Jack." The other man dipped his head in assent. "This latest project has been hell for us. Will hasn't been sleeping lately. His... thing he does is harsh on him. Dr. Bloom called his ability 'Folie à deux.' What does that translate to?"

Hannibal grinned; it was an interesting and very specific term, very fitting for someone as empathetic as Will. "Folly of two, or you could call it shared psychotic disorder," said Dr. Lecter. As they approached the door, the smell of pine was stronger. "Do you smell something?" Hannibal inquired, eyeing the director curiously. "If you mean the victims, yes, I smell them," Jack replied, opening the door.

Two bodies lay side by side on the blue polyester carpet, blood painted across the walls. Their ribs were cut and angled upwards, dried blood and possibly other former liquids encrusted about them, and the 'wings' punctured a black lung on either side.

Hannibal's maroon eyes lingered upon the victims a moment before spying the man kneeling before the corpses on a plastic sheet so as not to disturb the evidence. Because of how the bodies lay, their feet facing the door and Will at their head, he faced Hannibal and Jack.

His eyes were closed, and his eyes were moving restlessly beneath them. His eyelashes were long, cheekbones defined with a tamed scruff of beard over them, and his luscious, chapped lips were partially open and silently moving. His hands, gloved, were held aloft, and occasionally, he swept a gloved hand through his wild and dark curls. His head turned minutely in Hannibal's direction and his nostrils flared.

Dr. Lecter grinned at this; initial attraction between him and a person who could empathize for him was the best thing he could ever ask for; a present that Jack Crawford unwittingly wrapped with an elegant bow.

Cheap pine aftershave overwhelmed him; Will smelt like a disappointing brand of soap. The gears turned in his mind; so this was Will, the tormented FBI special agent who needed psychological aid? Hannibal's taste in men was impeccable; perhaps Will was enough like him that he could be worked, not manipulated, into supporting Hannibal's cause. _Well_ , Hannibal mused, _it's time someone rid him of his nightmares._

Will's eyes opened, immediately trained on Hannibal, but not meeting his eyes. His irises were a Caribbean blue, with a ring of clover green right around the pupil, which was suspiciously dilated. "I'd prefer you not interrupt me," Will said politely, yet with a hint of bite. If someone interrupted the golden pendulum in his mind, he was afraid he would harm them or lose the images.

"I was done anyway, but try not to do that. These were smokers and prostitutes that he paid for; there was no struggle because he knocked them out. He sees this as doing the world a favor; I think he's an asthmatic and probably an orphan. He has killed before; have you seen anything like this before, Jack?"

Hannibal eyed Crawford with interest. "I have seen something like this before in Little Rock. A crack addict had his heart and liver impaled on his ribs, splayed like these," said Crawford. "The parts most affected by the cocaine," Hannibal commented. Will nodded. "Will, this is Dr. Hannibal Lecter. Dr. Bloom said you can't go into the field without a lifeline, and here he is," Crawford said, gesturing towards the other man.

"Why impale someone addicted to crack if it doesn't relate to him?" asked Hannibal. Will focused his gaze on the bridge of Hannibal's nose so as not to be rude and not look in his unnerving maroon eyes. "Someone he knew could've overdosed on it, or he could still just see it as doing the world a favor," the special agent decided.

"Welcome to the field; it'll make even the sanest seek help," said Will with a sort of sad attempt at humor. "Though I don't think I classify," Will added after a moment. "If it helps, I myself have a psychiatrist," said Hannibal, lips quirking upward in a friendly smile.

Surprise dawned on Will's face, but he said nothing. "Do I have to be psychoanalyzed before I do another case? You won't like me when I'm psychoanalyzed," Will said, standing. He fixed his gaze onto Hannibal's shoes. "Why is it that you don't meet eyes?" Hannibal inquired, fascinated.

"Eyes are… distracting. They see too much and not enough," Will opined, and Hannibal politely left it at that. "An interesting observation. Whether or not you are psychoanalyzed is entirely up to you and your superior," Hannibal remarked. "I think you should be analyzed. I'll have my people search for an asthmatic orphan. How old d'you think he is, Will?" Jack asked on his way out, turning his head back to look at Will. "I'd say he's not too old; in his teens or twenties. This pattern would have emerged earlier if he was older."

Crawford left, leaving the door ajar. Hannibal and Will walked together. "I will try to curb my curiosities; it's terribly rude to probe someone like you," said Dr. Lecter. Will started to grin, and chuckled. "Oh? What am I, then?" "You're like fine china; only reserved for special guests," the psychologist observed.

Will laughed, eyes twinkling. "Ah, I like that. You're different than other psychoanalyzers." Dr. Lecter watched Graham a moment, bemusedly amused. "I like to think so," he said. "It's never beneficial to treat a patient as though they are a bug under a microscope." Will nodded in assent, and they walked over to Crawford's vehicle.

"Oh, and one more thing before Crawford hears, Will," said Hannibal. Will's eyes met Hannibal's maroon ones, and the empath shuddered. "Buy a different aftershave. It smells like something that has a ship on the bottle," said Hannibal, and he ducked into the vehicle. Will, stunned, stood still for about a minute, but upon hearing Crawford yell at him to get into the damned car, he quickly got in.

Will watched the coroners amble about the morgue as the two bodies lay face up on the gurneys. He could feel the killer from behind his eyes, like a murderer wearing a finely tailored person suit. This was why he couldn't sleep at night; he could still feel Hobbs doing the same, and even poking at the Chesapeake Ripper caused dreams of a raven stag.

He watched as the corpses were swabbed, opened up, sewn back up, and poked at a bit more. "They look like they were disgusted with him," said Jimmy, the same coroner with the Chinese food.

"No, they were frightened. They could see him a moment before he knocked them out. Their faces are assuming their last expression before death," said Will.

No matter how many killers he caught, he couldn't repair what he had done to his own brain and to the Hobbses. Abigail had died in his arms, with Garret whispering, 'see?' The room suddenly went dark, and everyone but the bodies disappeared.

The two corpses sat up, identical scars fading. The taller of the two's face morphed into the face of the Minnesota Shrike, and the shorter became his daughter. A gash appeared across Abigail's neck, and her glazed eyes were surrounded by rings of purple.

She was whimpering, and blood poured out of her purple lips. Garret sat beside his daughter, endless bullet wounds appearing, and blood trickling out of each. "See?" said the Shrike. "See?" It was difficult to read Abigail's bloodstained lips, but he could make out, 'I don't want to die like this.' The blood soaked the table, and a piercing mechanical wail brought Will back to the morgue with the living.

Dr. Alana Bloom followed Hannibal through his house, commenting on various fascinating decorations. Dr. Lecter made an occasional noise of agreement, but mostly stared at her curiously. Did she have romantic intentions for Will? "So, I've noticed that you actively yet subtly avoid being alone in a room with Will since I've known him."

She blinked, surprised. He'd probably been wanting to ask that for a long time. "Yes. He doesn't remember you, Hannibal."

He followed her into the dining room, two place mats set with some sort of golden poultry atop fine china plates. "It was dark, and there was a lot of blood. The death of Abigail Hobbs wasn't his fault. Anyway, try not to steer away from the question. I'd like to hear the answer before I forget." "I don't want to poke at him," she responded carefully, as he pulled out her chair and gestured for her to sit. His maroon eyes took in her stiff posture; she was made uncomfortable.

"Apologies. I see that I've made you uncomfortable," said Dr. Lecter. She looked up at him quickly, cerulean eyes startled. "Oh, no, it's just... I don't want to get romantically involved with Will Graham. He wouldn't be good for me." Hannibal stifled his primitive urge to growl at her. "But you are interested?" he inquired.

She sighed. "Yes... but I'm his friend. At the risk of sounding cliché, I don't want to ruin what we have now. In a relationship, I'd be too tempted to analyze him anyway." Hannibal seated himself near her. "He most definitely would not enjoy that." So she wouldn't interfere with Hannibal's plan. "Moving on, I have prepared Marzipan Ortolans. We will not partake in the usual rituals that come with consuming such, which involves veiling your head with a napkin to shield yourself from God, and consuming the bird whole. Bon Appétit."


	2. Sleepwalking

_Authors Note: I try to update as many times as possible. I hope my garbage is tasty. Oh, if I particularly enjoy your comments I shall feature you._

Disclaimer: I don't own 'em. I borrowed them and at some point I'll have to give 'em back.

Will came to suddenly, disoriented, and found himself in Jack Crawford's office.

He took in deep breaths in an effort to calm himself.

"Will, what'd you come here for?" Crawford seemed to indicate that Will's arrival at a spontaneous hour was normal, and that his unconscious behavior had been normal as well.

Will peered down for a moment at his clothes, eyes still clearing from just having woken, and noted that he was in his usual clothing, worn and almost ragged denim and flannel.

He'd been wearing them at home in Wolf Trap, Virginia, when he nursed a scotch.

"What time is it, Jack?" he asked, purposefully calm.

Jack stopped working for a moment to look at him. "3:45 am. Couldn't sleep?"

Will rubbed his temples. "Yeah. You?"

Jack leaned back in his chair and chuckled. "I thrive on insomnia. For me, sleeping is a partner activity. Bella has to be there for me to be able to."

"She wasn't home?"

"Stayed overnight at the hospital. She said her checkup turned into a goose chase for something."

Will gave him a sympathetic smile. "Hope she's okay. Any progress on the file?"

Crawford slid over a folder. "See for yourself. You were right. 23 year-old male, orphaned at eleven, and his mother was a prostitute."

"He's asthmatic," Will commented.

"He is asthmatic," Crawford nodded sagely in agreement.

The resolution of the one photo in the folder was grainy, but the man in it was tall and lanky with dark, limp hair, with just enough of his face visible to match the picture of the miserable little boy that he used to be.

"Why did you choose Hannibal and not Alana?" Will inquired curiously, after handing back the file.

Jack folded his hands and appeared thoughtful. "She's your friend; friends cloud judgement. She'd tell me you're suffering mentally and pull you out of this. I beg to differ."

 _And you chose the opinion which supported your own,_

Will mused.

Will left, closing the file and tucking it under his arm. _Where was I last?_

He remembered falling asleep, surrounded by his dogs. _How the hell did I end up here?_

"Did I seem a little weird to you when I came in?" Will asked. Crawford looked up, surprised.

"You're being a little weird right now," Jack replied, shuffling papers. "Get some sleep, Graham. You're no good to me if you pass out on a crime scene."

Will exited the room, looking around and trying to remember what happened. The last thing he remembered was sitting at home with his dogs and lying down to sleep.

He shook his head as though to rid himself of his thoughts, and left the building to drive home.

His mind wasn't on the road as he drove, and he had to swerve to miss a police officer.

About a mile away from his house, his eyes caught a flash of tan-russet. He backed his car up, and he saw a scruffy dog, trotting on the side of the road.

It peered at him through haunted eyes, and backed away, but Will wouldn't let up. He exited the car, sat in the back, and waited.

It approached cautiously, sniffing gently.

Will smiled and patted his thighs, squatting to meet it. It licked his face with a long, slippery pink tongue.

He opened a car door, and it backed away for a moment, then launched itself onto a seat.

He ruffled its ears, closed the door, and drove away.

His dogs greeted the new stray with a whine, and he shushed them, pouring himself some scotch.

Winston wagged his tail and sniffed each in turn.

Will swished his scotch around and absently wished he could fit in like Winston, but Hannibal's voice infected his mind.

 _'You are like fine china.'_

Morning found Will Graham at the FBI shooting range. His eyes were starting to purple like large bruises, like Abigail's had been.

He smelt Hannibal before he saw him.

He smelt mostly of peaches, but there was a dollop of iron in the mix.

"Quite an ungodly hour to do such, no?"Hannibal commented.

Will emptied his .8 glock into the target in a series of deafening claps, like iron thrunder.

"I suppose. I've been having trouble sleeping," he embellished a bit, wiping some sweat from his forehead.

"May I?" Hannibal inquired gently, gesturing to a stray curl that dangled far from the rest.

Will bowed his head slightly, chuckling softly, his cheeks dusted with a pink glaze.

Hannibal's fingers wandered a bit, caressing his head and causing sparks of electricity coursing through his skin.

Then he tugged the stray curl back into place, knuckles brushing Will's defined cheekbone.

Will could hardly remember to breathe.

There was something addictive about Hannibal, something primal and macabre that gave him shivers to think about.

"Allow me to buy you something to replace your atrocious aftershave," Hannibal said, voice a bit reluctant, as though he hadn't wanted to disturb the explosive connection.

"I have money," Will found enough voice to retort.

"But I have taste," Hannibal was quick to rebut, a smirk tugging at his lips.

Will rather enjoyed the expression, and vaguely wondered what had happened to his initial dislike of the man.

He pulled his glasses up and scraped at his eyes with the heel of his hand. "I guess. Let me, I don't know, pay for an outing at some point. In exchange."

Hannibal's eyes took on a glint of sorts, a genuine smile working its way across his face. "Absolutely. Now, Jack needs us. There is a case to close up, the one with the asthmatic."

Will placed the gun in the holster on his hip after replacing the cartrage, set his sound-canceling ear protection on a nearby table, and followed Hannibal like a wayward puppy.

"By the way, I have a few questions for you," Hannibal mentioned, turning his head to face Will as they exited the building.

"Such as?"

"This empathy you exhibit; was it prevalent from youth? Or did you develop it?" Hannibal queried.

"Careful, Hannibal," Will said, and though he could not tell whether or not it was a product of his fervent hope, Hannibal visibly trembled upon hearing his name spoken. "That borders on being intrusive."

"Nonsense. I know my boundaries. This is merely being curious."

"I guess I've been like this since I was able to walk and talk and observe," Will drawled, his gaze suddenly, and quite accidentally, dropping to Hannibal's posterior.

Hannibal heard Will crash into a wall behind him, curse, and continue his shuffle.

Will Graham was beet red, straightening his glasses, and laughing nervously when Hannibal turned to check on him.

The psychiatrist took pity on the special agent and asked no further questions until they reached Hannibal's vehicle outside.

"So, Will..."

 _Oh boy._ "Yes, Hannibal?" Will asked sweetly, intentionally watching for the older man's shiver.

He was not disappointed.

"How did it feel, to kill Hobbs?" Dr. Lecter asked.

Will sputtered a moment, face reddening again, which plastered a roguish grin on Hannibal's unique face.

"I... Hannibal..." Will floundered.

"It's all right if you're not prepared to tell me."

Will paused, and took a deep breath.

"It felt... wrong."

Hannibal snorted, and Will faced him, surprised and a touch embarassed.

"That's not the truth Will. I'll allow it now, but it won't always work in your favor."

Will swallowed slowly, throat suddenly dry. He felt like a penitent sinner, like he had disobeyed the word of god.

He felt white-hot anger like a tide flow through him, and his jaw clenched.

Who was this man, to just show up and make him experience emotion like nothing he'd ever known?

But as his narrowed gaze swept over Hannibal's face as the vehicle pulled away from the lot, his fury abated.

 _There is nothing wrong. There is nothing off about him,_ he told himself.

He forced himself to walk to his car, but he couldn't help watching Hannibal's car roll away, and he couldn't stifle the feeling of slight abandonment.


End file.
